


All Hallows Eve

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Descriptions of Bones, Gen, Ghosts?, Ghouls, Hauntings, Henry Lascelles Being A Twat, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Some Minor Mutilation, the undead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27017839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: I wanted to write some Halloween Ghosty stories for the holiday, but there didn't end up being a ton of ghosts in these stories. *shrug*Thank you touchmytardis for the Hadley-Bright/Levy/Purfois prompt that spawned my sleepover story! I hope you like it!These aren't very scary, but they are maybe a little bit gross?
Relationships: Hadley-Bright/Levy
Comments: 12
Kudos: 5





	All Hallows Eve

Mr. Norrell took a sip of his tea, letting the hot, bergamot scented steam gust against his face as he turned the page of the book he was currently reading. Childermass, who’d brought him the tea before going to bed, had warned him not to stay up too late. It was All Hallows Eve and there was a full moon, and he knew that Norrell struggled to sleep when the moon was full. 

Norrell however was far too engrossed in his latest book, _Curiose Observations upon the Anatomie of Faeries._ It was a book he had read before, a few times, but it had been perhaps a decade since he had last read it, and he wanted to see if he could discover the identity of the fairy with the thistle down hair that was now his nemesis. He had a suspicion that the creature might be the fairy Dick-Come-Tuesday, but he wasn’t quite sure. In the process of researching the horrid fairy’s identity, he had become completely absorbed by the narrative and the descriptions of fairy anatomy, and he had decided to stay up later than usual. 

It was a quiet night. The people of London had turned in a bit early, because it was unseasonably cold and very misty, transforming the streets surrounding Hanover Square into swirling hallways of fog and chill. 

Mr. Norrell burrowed a bit deeper into his armchair and continued reading and tried not to become too unsettled by the cold wind that whistled eerily outside his study windows. 

A scratching noise made him look up a few moments later. 

Mr. Norrell frowned. He was certain that the house had been thoroughly inspected for rodents, and there were no cats that lived here, and so a scratching was unusual. He decided that it had likely been a tree branch, scraping against the side of the house and went back to his reading.

“Ssskkkkkkkkkkkk” The scratching sound came again. More distinctly this time and Norrell peered suspiciously beyond the small pool of golden light cast by the candelabra on his chair-side table. He realized suddenly that the rest of his study was quite dark. Apparently, Childermass had not thought to keep more candles lit. Norrell frowned. 

“Ssssskkkkkkkk”

There it was again! An undeniable scratching noise. And it was not coming from the windows, as he’d previously hoped, but from somewhere within his darkened study. 

Norrell’s blood ran cold. What could be making that noise? It seemed far too loud to be made by the tiny claws of a mouse or a rat. In fact, it did not sound as if it had been made by an animal at all. It was a long, rasping noise, as if some determined individual had dragged the tip of a dagger across a wooden surface, or had dragged their fingernails down the wall. 

All of a sudden, Mr. Norrell was very angry at Childermass for not leaving more of the study candles lit. He was a fearful man, and when he became very fearful, his fear turned quickly to anger. He often yelled at Childermass during times of frustration, and his man of business placidly returned his yelling with rational explanations or fond condescension. Which was one of the main reasons they worked so well together. But this time, Norrell planned on really having it out with Childermass. He was sitting inside a small island of light in a very dark study, hearing a very concerning scratching noise in the general direction of one of his walls of bookshelves and it was giving him a serious case of the willies. 

He knew that now, he had to do one of three things. The first, and most appealing option was to grab the candelabra and run for the door and directly to his bed chambers. Whereupon he could leap into bed (probably fully dressed) and pull the covers over his head until his fear subsided and he fell asleep. 

The second option, less appealing, was to simply sit and keep reading until the noise went away. To pretend that it was in fact an animal of some sort that would move on in the night and stop its scratching, and try to lose himself in the pages of his book once more. This option would not be advisable if the creator of such an ominous scratching noise were made by some sort of horrifying ghoul that was even now, dragging its bloody, half mutilated limbs across the floor toward his chair, intent on murdering him. 

The third option, and the least appealing of all was to stand up and go investigate the scratching noise. 

Gilbert Norrell was not a brave man, and this was a very large understatement. He was in fact quite a coward. He knew this about himself and was comfortable with his level of cowardice. Cowards lived longer than heros. Cowards ran from battles, unlike heros, like his dear friend Jonathan Strange, who ran directly into them. Cowards hid from spooky noises and definitely did _not_ investigate them in darkened studies. 

Unfortunately, Norrell, though he was a coward, also possessed a very keen sense of curiosity. It was the reason he read so many books and had become so consumed with the concept of practical magic as a young lad. And he knew that if he ran to his bed, his mind would become eaten up with morbid fantasies over what exactly had made the eerie noise. 

He decided against all of his better judgments, to investigate. Slowly, he closed the book on his lap and placed it on the table beside his chair. Then he picked up his candelabra and stood. 

“Skkkkkkkkkkkrrrrrr!!!” 

The scratching noise came again, this time louder. Norrell jumped and let out a squeak. The candelabra jerked in his hand and some hot wax splattered onto his wrist and he jumped again and squeaked even louder. It took him a few moments to calm himself, for the last scratching noise, mixed with the pain of the hot wax and the start it had given him had his heart pounding in his ears and his breath coming fast. 

He took a tentative step away from his armchair and toward where he believed was the source of the unnerving sound. It was coming from somewhere near the great mirror hung upon the northwest all of the study. Norrell could just make out the faint gleam of the mirror’s gilded frame in the dim light cast by his candelabra. He took another step, and another. The creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet made him start, but he swallowed hard and kept going. Soon, he was only a few feet away from the area where he was certain the noise was coming from. 

  
  


“SSSKKKRRRRRRR” 

The scratching noise happened again! This time very loudly, and Norrell jumped and cried out in fear. He almost turned and ran from the study, but what if, instead of some sort of black magic ghoul, come to steal his soul, it was a leak in the roof, causing a distortion in the wood of the ceiling beams? Or what if it were some low rate magician, casting a fear spell to try and drive him from Hanover Square and from London entirely? He knew either way, if he did not find out, he would never get to sleep. 

Scolding himself for his irrational fears, he stepped closer to the mirror and slowly held up the candelabra. At first, his own reflection, his worried face, bathed in the yellow glow of the candle’s light, was all he could see. But then, slowly, he became aware of a pale shape reflected in the depths of the dark mirror. It came into focus slowly, appearing to bloom outward from the center of his chest in the reflection, growing larger and more distinct, until he was looking at a pale, female figure, dressed in white. Her face came into focus, mixing with Norrell’s features in the mirror, until she overcame and consumed his reflection, replacing him completely. 

It was Lady Pole’s face and form. He was certain of it. She looked out of the mirror with hollow, dark eyes that seemed not to see him, her skin a deathly pale white. Her hair was ragged and lank and fell about her shoulders without a care, and instead of a mouth, a large, black rose bloomed, covering the entirety of her lower face. 

While he watched with horror, she raised a hand, her pale fingers tipped with jagged nails looking far more like claws, and scratched down the inside of the mirror.

“SKKKKKKKRRRRRRRREEEEEEE” the noise was like metal on metal.

Norrell gasped in terror. “No!” he exclaimed. “It can’t be!” 

Upon hearing his cries, Lady Pole, her eyes, once full of anguish, now turning sharp with a feral sort of curiosity, snapped her head toward him. The rose covering her lips parted, the petals opening to reveal a dark maw-like mouth. Norrell could see a sickly orange glow emanating from that disturbing opening in her lower face, as if her belly were afire with the flames of Hell. 

“Hallllffff my liffeeeee,” she moaned, her eyes, now full of rage, focusing on him with murderous purpose. “Half my life you stole from meeeee!”

Norrell shrieked and dropped the candelabra and ran from the study. 

“Childermass!!!!!” he yelled as he fled. “Childermass help!!!”

Luckily, the candelabra snuffed itself against the floor. The mirror, only seconds before having shown Mr. Norrell his deepest fear, now stood dark and cold, and reflected nothing but the interior of Mr. Norrell’s study. If one listened carefully however, one might hear a faint chuckle, as if from a young lady who had pulled off a very diverting prank. 

  
  
  


_________________________________

  
  
  


Henry Lascelles was regretting, for perhaps the tenth time this evening his decision to accompany John Childermass to the old church at the end of St. George Street. It was a rundown old church, likely built several centuries prior by clergymen with very little money and precious little sense of style. 

But what was he to do? Norrell had told Childermass that he’d received a mysterious yet thrilling letter from a private collector of obscure books, asking Norrell to meet him in the church at midnight on All Hallows Eve to discuss the purchase of some of his reportedly rare and sought after volumes. And since Norrell would not under any circumstances visit an old church at midnight on the eve of All Saints Day, even to purchase books, he had of course sent Childermass. 

Lascelles didn’t trust Childermass. How was Norrell to know the man wouldn’t pocket a book or two, or that he perhaps wouldn’t tell Norrell they’d cost more than they had and keep the remainder for himself? This is what _Lascelles_ would do if Norrell had placed that sort of trust in _him_ , and so he could not believe that Childermass, with his ragged hair and filthy hands and insolent sneer, would hold himself to higher standards if left unattended. 

And this is why he’d insisted on accompanying Childermass to this blasted church at half past eleven on All Hallows Eve. Childermass had not reacted as Lascelles had hoped when Norrell had agreed to let Lascelles accompany him on his mission. The filthy man had only shrugged. As if he weren’t disappointed that his plans to rob his master blind had been interrupted by the hasty addition of Henry Lascelles to this bizarre late night venture. 

The walk there had been spent largely in silence. Lascelles was personally insulted at having to walk anywhere, but Childermass had mumbled that it was a journey of five minutes on foot and that “a child” could do it with little effort and so Lascelles had graciously forgone insisting on a carriage to keep the man from being an even worse prat. 

They’d arrived at the darkened church with fifteen minutes to spare and Childermass had walked directly inside, holding the lantern he’d brought with them to light the way. And since he had no intention of standing outside in the dark by himself, Lascelles followed him. 

“It doesn’t bode well that this mysterious book dealer isn’t here yet,” Lascelles remarked with a sniff, his voice echoing strangely inside the cold stone walls of the empty church. It was a misty night, and chilly, and he pulled his coat more tightly around him as he looked critically at the bare interior. Really. Not a velvet drape or a gilt candelabra in sight. What sort of religious establishment was this? 

Childermass was waiting patiently, hands in his pockets, leaning against a wall by the first row of pews, and this irritated Lascelles. “What if he doesn’t show up?” he asked, petulantly. “Or worse, what if we’ve been lured here just to have our purses stolen and our throats cut?”

Childermass huffed what sounded like a chuckle. “I doubt that is the case sir. We are several minutes early. He’ll be here.”

“And how do you know that?” Lascelles snapped, growing more irritable by Childermass’ lack of concern. 

“Because I ave a feeling,” the man replied. 

“A _feeling_ . Oh well, I’m sure everything will turn out right as rain, because you’ve had a _feeling._ ” Lascelles sneered. 

Childermass ignored him. 

Some moments later, Lascelles jumped as the sound of a door creaking open rang out in the musty silence of the old church. A small, bespeckled man stepped out of the shadows by the front doors and approached them. His name was Mr. Stoneweight and he did indeed have a selection of rare books that Mr. Norrell would be interested in purchasing. After a brief conversation, during which Lascelles was secretly impressed at Childermass’ business acumen, some books and some money traded hands, and Mr. Stomeweight bid them adieu. 

Childermass had purchased quite a few books, and was struggling to fit them all into a satchel he’d brought for the purpose of carrying them back to Mr. Norrell’s house. 

“I can help you carry them,” Lascelles offered, really wanting to keep an eye on the books so that Childermass didn’t steal any, or drop them in the street like the clumsy oaf he most assuredly was. 

“Fine, take these,” Childermass shoved three rather heavy books into Lascelles hands, without saying thank you. 

Lascelles could not help his curiosity and opened the book on the top of the stack in his arms. It was in Latin, a language that Childermass likely did not speak or read, considering that he was a gutter rat of a man who Lascelles believed had been raised in some horrible squalor of a pig sty, somewhere in the depths of a poor Yorkshire village. 

Childermass busied himself with putting the rest of the books into his satchel, and it dawned on Lascelles that he could show the man how much better a person he was by displaying his grasp of Latin. He flipped open the book to the middle and read the first line he could see by the light of Childermass’ lantern, which rested on a pew nearby.

“Vivamus ac rursus ex mortuis resurrexerit credent,” he said, in as officious a tone as he could manage. Rather morbid if he did say so himself, but it would due to prove how more well educated he was than a walking dust mote like Childermass.

Childermass’ reaction was immediate and harsh. “You fool!” he exclaimed, and reached over and slapped the cover of the book in Lascelles’ hands closed with one large hand. “Don’t _ever_ read from any of these books without the express permission of Norrell or myself!”

Lascelles was stunned into silence for a moment, but he rallied quickly. “How _dare_ you speak to me in such a fashion!” he said, clutching the books to his chest and glaring at Childermass over the top of them. “I am a _gentleman_ and you are nothing but a filthy servant, and I’ll read from any of these books whenever I choose!”

He would have said more, but just then there came a strange noise from within the shadows at the front of the church. It was a rattling, rasping, dragging sort of noise. As if someone were dragging a bag of washing across the stone floor of the church's vestibule. 

“What was that?” Lascelles asked, his heart suddenly in his throat.

“Do you know what it is you read aloud just now?” Childermass asked him through teeth gritted with anger. His eyes were black coals, boring into Lascelles face. “Loosely translated, it meant _rise from the dead and live again_.” 

The scraping sound was growing nearer. Lascelles’ eyes flicked over to the vestibule, not wanting to see whatever it was that would soon step out of the shadows and into the dim light of their lanturn, but finding that he also could not look away. He stepped closer to Childermass. “I...I did not think it would do any harm,” he stammered.

“No,” Childermass replied, also looking at the front of the church intently. “Clearly you did not think at all.”

Both men instinctively backed away from the front of the church. 

The thing in the vestibule emerged into the lantern's glow and for a very brief moment, Lascelles thought that the bookseller had possibly returned for some reason, as the shape of a man stepped into the circle of yellow light. He was pale and dressed in shabby clothes, and at first, it was possible for one to believe that he was a normal person, if one did not look too closely. But then, the man took a shambling step further, and Lascelles could see that his eyes were mere dark hollows in his pale face, and that his mouth was a toothless hole. He seemed to be barely held together by twine, as if his body would fall apart were he to stumble and fall. 

“You’ve raised the dead you absolute idiot!” hissed Childermass.

Lascelles wanted to be insulted, but at this moment he was far too terrified. Scrabbling noises at the high windows on either side of the church’s nave showed humanoid shadows with claw-like fingers, scraping to be allowed entrance. Behind them, in the mausoleum attached to the church, other horrifying noises were occurring as well. They were surrounded!

“Stay close to me and keep quiet for a minute,” Childermass said, grabbing Lascelles by the arm and yanking him closer. Lascelles let himself be manhandled for the pure fact that he had never been so terrified, and inside his fear, Childermass’ solid presence and take charge attitude were the only things he could cling to to keep panic at bay. 

Childermass was muttering under his breath while leafing through one of the books he’d removed from the satchel, clearly frantically looking for a spell to remedy the situation. Lascelles prayed that he would find one quickly, as the shambling dead man was drawing closer. As he did so, Lascelles could see more and more unsettling details about the figure that approached them. His chest was nothing but exposed ribs with blackness inside and his eyes were swimming with the furtive, spastic motions of insects. Behind him, a second and a third reanimated corpse were shambling into view from the vestibule. 

Lascelles tugged urgently on Childermass’ sleeve. “Childermass! Childermass!” he said in a harsh whisper. “There’s _more of them!_ ’

“I know that Mr. Lascelles, now do please shut up.” 

The creatures in the vestibule were getting closer, and the noises from the mausoleum behind them were growing louder. The scrabbling at the windows was also becoming quite distracting. Lascelles was afraid in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced. He hoped distantly that he did not wet himself, not in front of Childermass anyway. 

The corpses approaching them from the vestibule were only a few feet away now, and their proximity allowed Lascelles to see even more unsettling details about their appearance. Details he was almost certain would haunt his dreams for years to come. If he lived through this that is.

Finally, Childermass seemed to find a spell that would work. He raised a hand in the direction of the closest group of reanimated bodies and shouted several words, in a language Lascelles had never heard before. A flash of light resulted, and a thunder clap rang out inside the church. Lascelles screwed his eyes shut and buried his face in Childermass’ back (at this point, he’d sought shelter by hiding behind Childermass, like a child hides behind their mother’s skirts). 

Silence reigned in the aftermath of the spell. Lascelles was afraid to look, but eventually, he was forced to do so when Childermass stepped away from him, effectively ruining his hiding place. Lascelles opened his eyes and saw that the bodies of the dead were gone from the nave. The scrabbling had ceased from the windows, and the mausoleum was blessedly silent. 

“Y-you stopped them?” he asked, reaching out to grip Childermass’ arm, not wanting to let his new hero move too far away from him. “Oh thank heaven!”

Childermass shook off his hand with a snort of disgust. “Well, I wouldn’t have had to remedy this situation if _you_ hadn’t thought yourself oh so clever and cast a reanimation spell,” he growled. 

Lascelles was too relieved to be insulted. “Can we please leave now?” he asked, realizing he was still clutching the small stack of books to his chest, and may have ruined at least two of the bindings with the death grip he’d had on them. 

“Yes, that would also be amenable to me,” Childermass replied, with the use of heavy irony. 

Together they swiftly left the church and walked back to Norrell’s. Before making their way up to Norrell’s study, Lascelles’ once again tugged on Childermass’ sleeve. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this … little blunder to Mr. Norrell,” he said. 

“Is that so?” Childermass asked, his mouth screwed up into an indolent half smirk. “And what, pray tell, will you give me to keep me silent?”

Lascelles, finally having his wits about him enough to be truly insulted, opened his mouth and drew in his breath to utter a stinging retort. Childermass smiled. “It is alright Mr. Lascelles. I’ll keep your secret. You will just have to owe me something at some time in the future when I have a need.” And with that, he took the books from Lascelles grasp, hefted the satchel that contained the rest of the volumes and began to ascend the stairs to Norrell’s study.

Lascelles glowered at his receding back, almost completely forgetting that the man had just saved both of their lives from a pack of shambling undead Londoners, and followed him up. 

  
  


_______________________

  
  


“I am not sure I approve of this as an adequate stopping place for the night,” Levy said, his voice carrying a subtle tremor of fear. 

“Nonsense!” said Hadley-Bright, who feared nothing. “It is simply an old abandoned house on the side of a lonely hill on All Hallows Eve! It will be a perfect place to camp for the evening. And furthermore, it looks like rain. I have no intention of sleeping in the damp. This is a new jacket!”

Purfois rolled his eyes. “Fine. I have no desire to sleep or ride in the rain either. It is nearing midnight and Starecross is still several hours from here. I agree with Mr. Hadley-Bright. We shall sleep in the abandoned house.”

Tom Levy looked miserable, but since Hadley-Bright (whom he adored) and Levy (whom he liked well enough) had insisted, he had no choice but to acquiesce. 

The three men were coming home from a quest to interview a possible new teacher for the Starecross School of Magic, as well as picking up several books of magic from a gentleman’s library in Darlington. Being that they were young, with fresh horses and excited by the responsibility of such an important trip, they’d made the journey to Darlington in one day. Having arrived however, and interviewed the very drippy Mr. Halifax, whom all three of them decided would make a poor instructor indeed, and having procured the books, they found that they’d dawdled a bit on the way home, and now were forced to stop for the night. 

It did indeed begin to rain as they approached the dark, abandoned building in the night. A lightning flash cut through Hadley-Bright’s complaints over his new coat getting ruined anyway, and illuminated a towering, square, multi floor structure and black, empty window frames. 

“We’re sure it isn’t lived in?” Levy asked, feeling a twist of apprehension in the middle of his stomach. 

“Highly doubtful,” replied Hadley-Bright. “It’s black as pitch inside and all the windows are broken.”

“In that case, of course we shall _not_ be murdered in our sleep by vengeful fairy spirits,” remarked Purfois. He often poked fun of Hadley-Bright’s bravado with subtle jabs that Hadley-Bright did not appear to notice. 

The three men made their way inside. The door was unsurprisingly not locked, for the house looked as if it had been abandoned many years ago. Perhaps by some family that had lost their fortune and had been forced to vacate?

They tied their horses up under the back eves of the house, within reach of some wet grass for them to make their supper out of, and then settled themselves in the living room. The room still featured a threadbare braided rug on the floor and some very old and rickety looking furniture, including a pair of musty sofas. 

Levy, always the resourceful one, retrieved his snuff box and built them a fire in the chimney, which miraculously still functioned, and had not been filled with rat and squirrel’s nests. They piled their travel blankets and spare clothes into three rough sleeping arrangements. No one wanted to sleep on the musty sofas, as abandoned furniture is often home to rodents and insects. 

Once the fire was crackling merrily and they had settled in, Purfois passed around a flask of brandy and asked if they wanted to tell ghost stories. Levy decidedly did _not_ wish to tell ghost stories as he had something of a nervous disposition. He’d tried to cure himself of this by doing more physical things. Chopping wood, helping with repairs around Starecross Hall, and of course, his dance instruction, which had the added side effect of making him stronger of arm and leg, as well as calming his jitters. Though, spending a night in an old, rickety house in a thunderstorm was not helping his disposition in the slightest. 

Hadley-Bright however, never one to be shown up, had accepted, stating categorically that neither ghosts nor the stories about them scared him in any way. Purfois took this as a challenge and decided to scare Hadley-Bright out of his skin with the most disturbing ghost stories he could recall. Levy sighed and prepared himself for a long evening. 

“It was a dark and stormy night, much like this one,” began Purfois, to dual eye rolls from his companions. “A merchant was traveling home after a long journey to a city on the coast. While there, he had been told repeatedly by the local denizens of the city that he should under no circumstances stop to rest in the thick wood through which he would travel home. They claimed that the wood was haunted, and that if he rode straight through he would be spared, but that if he stopped for the night, or even for a few moment’s rest to stretch his legs or adjust his saddle, that he would not make it out of the wood alive.”

Levy shivered as lightning flashed and thunder rolled ominously outside. He was almost certain he saw Hadley-Bright jump at the sudden light and noise, but the other man covered this flinch with a hand combed hurriedly through his hair, and a yawn. 

“The merchant did not believe the townspeople, but he thought there would be no harm in making his way swiftly through the wood and home again without stopping to rest. And so he set off for home, with his horse’s saddle bags laden with goods he had purchased in the city, eager to be sitting by his own hearth yet again.” 

“The merchant fully expected the mysterious wood to be dark and foreboding,” continued Purfois, “but in fact it was calm and peaceful. Fireflies danced among the trunks of the trees, and the forest floor was carpeted with a thick layer of moss, and speckled with little white flowers. The air under the trees smelled of pine and lavender and was quite soothing. All of a sudden, the merchant felt rather sleepy, and began to nod atop his horse as a great wave of drowsiness stole over him. The moss by the side of the road looked oh so soft and comfortable, and he began to contemplate perhaps stopping for a short nap.”

Levy had the distinct idea that stopping for a nap was a horrible thing for the merchant to do. He inched a little closer to Hadley-Bright, who was looking a little worried himself, despite his bragging over being very difficult to scare. 

“And so, the merchant, against his own better judgment, dismounted and told himself that he would only lay and rest his eyes for a few moments before moving on. He curled up on a particularly soft bed of moss and fell asleep.”

“He woke a short time later to the sound of his horse, screaming in pain. He felt something cold and unpleasant against his neck. Upon opening his eyes and sitting up, he saw his horse, its legs bloodied, its eyes rolling, as what looked like thousands of tiny, green snakes or vines attached themselves to its legs and underbelly. Upon looking closer, he saw that they were in fact thousands of tiny mouths, perfectly formed with lips and teeth and tongues, reaching up from the moss and eating at his horse’s body with small bites. 

“He realized far too late that he as well was under siege from these little mouths, and that the cold wet thing against his neck had been one such vicious orifice that had been seeking purchase in order to bite down upon his flesh. The mouths were strong in their grip, and he could not escape, and so he and his horse were eaten alive, slowly and painfully!” 

Levy shuddered, but Hadley-Bright only shrugged. “That was disgusting to be sure, but scary?” the man said, “not very.”

Purfois was only momentarily put out. “Alright, I shall tell you another then,” 

The next tale was about a gentleman and lady traveling to York in a carriage, who obligingly stopped to pick up a young girl who was stranded by the side of the road, only to discover, after letting her off at her stated destination, that the girl had been dead for two hundred years. 

Another yawn from Hadley-Bright, still more shivers from Levy. 

Finally, Purfois decided to tell his most terrifying tale yet. He told the story of how a pair of traveling brothers had stopped for the night at a farm house. “It was abandoned, much like this house is,” Prufois said. “And though the brothers were glad to have shelter for the night, the barn was very dark and ominous and surrounded by an eerie copse of trees that took the wind and made it into a high pitched wailing noise. 

As if on cue, the wind rustled wildly through the trees outside of their temporary shelter for the evening. Hadley-Bright actually shivered. 

“They made their beds inside the barn and bolted the door against thieves or any other sort of intruder, and settled in to sleep. All was quiet for a while, or rather, all was quiet except for the howling wind in the trees. In the middle of the night, the eldest brother needed to relieve himself, and so he rose and crept to the door and unbarred it as quietly as he could.”

Hadley-Bright had inched a bit closer to where Levy was sitting, and Levy could see that the man was breathing a little bit faster than normal. Perhaps the ghost stories were having an effect on him after all? 

“The eldest brother walked out of the barn and around the back, where he decided to do his business against one of the pale trunks of one of the trees. It was still very dark, and so he could not see much, but he stumbled over to one such tree and undid his trousers. As he was doing his business, he heard a voice, whisper something quite near his ear. He jumped, and looked around, but no one was there. Soon, he finished up, redid himself and wanted to head back to the barn, being that he was quite unnerved by the strange voice in the night. He had gone no more than a few steps when he heard it again. A rough whisper, right in his ear, and this time he could make out the words. 

_Come dance with us_

He whirled about, looking for the source of the voice, but could see nothing but darkness and the trunks of trees surrounding him. The barn was nowhere in sight!”

Hadley-Bright jerked a little bit, but then realized he’d expressed some sort of reaction to the tale and effected another broad yawn. By this time though, Levy knew he was exaggerating for their sake and that he was just as scared as Levy was (which was quite a bit).

“The elder brother began to panic. He could have sworn that the barn was only a few meters away, but now, all he could see were tree trunks. A sudden flash of lightning showed him that he was indeed surrounded by trees, with no barn in sight. ‘Help!’ he cried. ‘Brother! Where are you?!’, hoping that his brother would wake and come to investigate. But no one came. 

_Come dance with us_

The voice sounded again, like a rough whisper, as if the owner of the voice were standing quite close to him. This time, he let out a shriek and began to run. He knew not which direction he ran, nor where the barn was in the darkness, but he was spurred by panic and simply ran for his life. 

And then,” Purfois paused to take a drink of brandy from the flask, and Levy could hear Hadley-Bright swallow audibly in the sudden silence. “And then, a bright flash of lightning illuminated the copse of trees around him, and he could see…. “

“What! What could he see! Tell us man and stop dawdling!” Hadley-Bright was clearly quite affected, and had dropped all pretense of being calm and bored by the tale. His hands were clenched into fists on his knees and his face was screwed up in a very anxious expression. 

“He could see that all around him, in the branches of the trees… were bodies. Dead bodies, swinging to and fro, dangling and swaying from almost every branch. He turned, intending to flee, but was confronted with a ghoulish figure. A man in a dark coat, whose face was hidden in the recesses of a dark hood. The man brandished a knife and pointed to the nearest tree, where the eldest brother could clearly see his sibling, dangling from a branch, bloodied and torn, like a ragdoll. 

_Come dance with us_ … the words issued from within the hood. The eldest brother screamed, and it was the last sound he ever made.” 

Purfois finished his story just as a flash of lightning and a loud crack of thunder boomed through the house. Hadley-Bright jumped and let out a squeak. He soon gathered his wits about him again however, and pretended as if he were not afraid at all. “That one was quite entertaining Mr. Purfois, but really, it must have been intended to frighten children, for it had very little effect upon me.” 

Purfois let him have his denials and merely shrugged. It was late, and the three men decided it was time to turn in for the night. All three bedded down as comfortably as they could and tried to sleep. Purfois, who had had more brandy than everyone else, was snoring within minutes, but Levy was unsettled by the stories, and so could not drop off so easily. 

He was quite surprised, (but happily so) when Hadley Bright came and set up his makeshift bed next to Levy’s. “I am cold,” Hadley-Bright explained.”Would I be able to lie near you?”

Levy readily agreed, being that he adored Hadley-Bright and very much wanted him close at all times, not simply when he was scared of ghosts and ghouls. Hadley-Bright lay down very near to Levy indeed, and the two lay still for a little while, sharing warmth and trying to sleep. 

Eventually, Levy felt Hadley-Bright squirm closer, and, gathering up all of his daring, he wrapped an arm around Hadley-Bright’s waist, another around his shoulders and pulled him in closer still. Hadley-Bright’s breath was warm against Levy’s mouth and his body felt very nice pressed up against Levy’s. “I’ll have you know,” Hadley-Bright whispered, “that I am here only because I find you quite handsome, and not because I am scared.”

“Of course not, of course not sir,” Levy responded. “I would never dream of any other motive for your being here.” 

“Good. Then I am certain we will find a way to entertain ourselves until we fall asleep,” Hadley-Bright whispered in the seconds before his lips met Levy’s. 

And so they did, entertain themselves quite soundly. Eventually, Hadley-Bright was thoroughly distracted from his fears by Levy’s lips and hands, and fell asleep, quite sated and warmed, with Levi’s strong arms wrapped around him. Outside, the thunder grew more and more faint and the lightning ceased as the sky turned the light gray of early dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> So, Emma Pole could totally be playing tricks on Norrell while enchanted by the Gentleman. She's swimming in magic and has a lot of time on her hands, what with all the dancing and sleeping and doing not much of anything else.


End file.
